


Upon My Liar's Chair

by LeviLoser



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, M/M, Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeviLoser/pseuds/LeviLoser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac is an ex-courier, fresh out of the grave. He's haunted by his past - and is only alive to try and redeem himself, if he can. He and Boone have that much in common, even if they don't talk about it. They both want to take out the Legion - that's what matters, right?</p>
<p>Eventual M!Courier/Boone, warnings will be added if needed. Some of the NV timeline will be toyed with. Bear with me, it's been a while since I last did a multi-chapter fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Novac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ex-courier named Mac can't help but get curious when the Legion's involved.

Mac usually doesn't have a problem keeping to himself - being nosy and getting involved in the troubles of others is what can get you killed, especially when you're trying to keep a low profile. And with the number of near-death experiences he’s had lately...

But the story he hears in Novac is too familiar, and the old woman at the motel far too dismissive. Maybe he's just hyper-aware of the Legion's atrocities - kidnapping a woman in the middle of the night, especially the wife of an NCR soldier?

Caesar would delight in it. People - especially women - are as good as objects to him, and he treats them accordingly. The only thing odd to him is that there was only one victim. The Legion loves taking settlements for themselves - often in the most violent ways possible. Novac doesn’t feel like it’d be too big for them, either - even if they do have a couple good snipers.

 

Mac thinks about the sniper and his wife far too long while he’s doing odd jobs around Novac, gathering clues about his own life where he can. He’s not sure he really should be worried about anyone else - a couple months ago, he’d woken up and somehow survived a bullet to the head, and he’s trying to solve _strangers’_ problems? 

It’s not like him to pry. It really isn’t. But he finds himself standing in the mouth of a life-sized concrete dinosaur anyway.

 

"It's Boone, right?"

"Yeah." Mac swallows hard.

"Heard your wife's been kidnapped."

"That's a shitty way to greet a stranger with a rifle in his hands." But he puts his rifle down to look at him, squinting like it's high noon and not midnight. Mac's eyes drift to the man's beret for a moment, panic rising in his chest - instinct, he thinks, at this point. That’s all.

"The motel owner, she..."

"...Thinks she left me? She's wrong."

"You think it was Legion?" It's the most he's ever spoken to an NCR soldier in his life. His goddamn palms are sweating.

"I _know_ it was. She's dead and I want to know who tipped them off." He's not squinting anymore, but he's watching Mac like he's dissecting him, trying to determine whether he's trustworthy. "You feel up to playing detective? There'd be caps in it for you."

 

It's been about two years since he started doing odd jobs, courier work -- the Legion wasn’t nearly this powerful then - or maybe their presence just feels crushing now. His once close-shaved head is now a bushy mess of ginger hair, long enough to tie back. In his leather armour and dusty cowboy hat he hardly looks like the man he was - and that offers him some peace, at least. But he still has a lot to answer for. And look out for.

Because no one crosses Caesar and lives - at least that's what they say. The Legion's eyes are everywhere, and if you dare to as much as doubt Caesar you'll be crucified before you can even try to beg for your life. 

It’s the sort of thing he has to force himself not to think about when he’s lying in bed at night. If the Legion’s been there already… They could come back for more. The entire town. More than a few settlements in the area have gone that way - and he knows they aren't above bribing civilians. 

 

So he says yes. Takes the man’s beret - First Recon, and he shudders - and promises to find whoever was responsible for his wife’s disappearance. At first he suspects Vargas, since he seems pretty damn content about the situation, but he’s either innocent or good at covering his tracks. 

So Mac keeps looking. Does some errands around town. Looks some more. 

A lengthy (if confusing) conversation with an old man on the edge of town brings him back to the motel. Jeannie May looks as though she hasn’t moved an inch since he first spoke to her the night he came into town.

 

“Ms. Crawford, d’you mind if I ask you somethin’?” He attempts to look natural, to sound natural as he takes his hat off and runs a hand through his tangled hair. She only smiles.

“‘Jeannie May’ will do just fine, dear. What did you need?”

“Ah… There was an older gentleman who told me he saw some sort of suspicious behaviour in the motel one night. Just wanted to know if you knew anything about it.” Her expression grows stern, and she looks at him over the rims of her glasses.

“Are you accusing me of something?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“No-Bark is the craziest man you’ll ever meet, dear. I know everything that happens here.” She gets up and pats his shoulder. “I’ve got eyes on the back of my head. Your mother’s probably the same way.” Laughing, she pats his shoulder again and heads out the door. 

 

Mac holds his breath a moment, glancing around the room.

A small, silver key sits on her desk, no doubt for the safe behind the counter.

This isn’t the person he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be doing the right thing.

But -- he won’t take anything. He just needs to look inside. It’ll give him peace of mind.

He turns the key and the safe comes open, the only contents a bag of bottlecaps and a small, folded piece of paper. When he reads it, his stomach churns.

Not one person had ever mentioned that Carla Boone had been pregnant. He exhales slowly, trying to keep himself from -- he doesn’t know what. Vomiting or going after her in a rage?

 

Pocketing the bill of sale, Mac manages to make everything look untouched, keeps his head down, and stays in his room reading old books until nightfall comes. He feels sick all over again just thinking about it. 

 

“Ms. Crawford?” he murmurs, standing in the doorway of the motel lobby. “There’s -- something I think you should see out in front of the big statue.” Or not see, in the case of Boone. He’s familiar with the NCR’s love of taglines. As he leads her outside he slips the other man’s beret on, and he can smell Boone’s cigarettes on it. His stomach twists again.

“Are you NCR? You never mentioned that,” Jeannie May asks. Mac says nothing and steps in front of the dinosaur.

She’s dead before she even hits the ground. Mac tries not to look for too long before taking the beret off. 

He gives Boone the bill of sale, and Boone hands him a bag of caps, as promised. They’re quiet for a few minutes, Mac staring outside, watching the dark sky.

 

“What’ll you do now?” he finally asks.

“Dunno.” Boone lights a cigarette; Mac’s nose crinkles.

“You’re not worried about what people here’ll think if you stay?” 

“Things like this happen out here. People die.” Boone glances over at Mac, who is leaning out of the mouth of the statue. “What do you do, anyway? Wander?”

“I guess so. I was a courier for Mojave Express for a while.” No one needs to know anything more than that. The man doesn’t need his life story.

“Was?”

“I, uh… Got shot in the head on a job couple months ago. So I’m wandering, yes.” His fingers drift over the scar on the side of his head, thankful that he’s got enough hair to cover it. "Y'wanna come with me, maybe?" Mac's not expecting the man to want to, but it seems right to offer.

Boone snorts, but shakes his head. "You don't want that."

"Why not? We could take out some Legion -- if that's something you'd wanna do."

"Don't get me wrong - that's all I wanna do these days. I'm just saying it won't end well for you." Another cigarette, another flick of the lighter. 

"I'm not looking for a happy ending. Just to do somethin’ right." Mac's starting to wonder if he should just leave -- but Boone is silent for a moment, watching him again.

"Fine. Let's go. Just don't expect me to be your personal bodyguard."

“I can take care of myself. Promise.” The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying to smile, but honestly, he’s a bit terrified at the prospect of travelling with _anyone_ after being on his own for so long. “Where to?”

Boone stares out at the desert, blowing smoke out through his nose.

“You ever heard of a place called Nelson?”


	2. Nelson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boone and Mac take back Nelson, but not without difficulties.

Mac swallows. He remembers Nelson, remembers maps, plans. "Heard of it. Got warned not to go out that way. Legion out there?"

"You got it. Used to be an NCR camp 'til pretty recently." 

"Then we'll head out tomorrow." Mac wonders if this is a test - of his alliances, of his abilities. Makes sense. He hasn't proven anything to the other man yet.

He bids the sniper good night and tosses and turns for hours before he can sleep. While he talks about going after the Legion, he’s never directly confronted them. There’s only two of them -- what if they just end up strung up to die?

 

It's close to noon when Boone turns up at his motel room door. He can tell the other man hasn't slept much either, but maybe this will give them closure. Something. 

The road to Nelson is a long, quiet walk and they only break silence to fight critters here and there. Boone stands in back with his rifle and pinpoint precision; Mac rushes in with a sledgehammer and all fear pushed as far back as possible. If he dies by mantis or molerat or cazador he can't save anyone. 

 

A few hours out they take a short break, prying open cans of beans and sitting near the side of the road. 

At long last, Boone breaks the silence and Mac nearly jumps out of his skin.

 

"Who shot you?"

"Don't really know." Mac forces a laugh, shaky and high. "From Vegas, from what I’ve gathered. They were after some package I was carrying. I’m not in a big hurry to get it back."

"You don't want to shoot him?" A shrug is all he receives until Mac finishes his lunch.

“Don’t know yet. Think it might be more trouble than it’s worth if they made all that effort.” He slips his hat into his lap, digging around in his knapsack for a moment to find a hairband - or something he can use as one. When Mac pulls his hair up Boone can see the side that’s shaved down, a round lump of a scar just above his right ear. 9 millimetres, looks like.

“Too hot,” Mac mumbles when he notices Boone looking, and slides his hat back on.

 

They’re back on the road after that, quiet save for the rhythmic scrapes of their boots against the dirt and gravel in almost perfect synchronization. There are less animals the closer they get to Nelson - taken out by Legion dogs, Mac suspects. Killing the dogs sometimes feels like the worst part of any of this, for him. They’re not in this for any real gain - they’re just trained that way.

He suspects the dogs aren’t the only ones.

 

“We’re close,” Boone says, reloading his rifle. “I won’t hesitate to shoot when we start spotting ‘em.”

“Good.”

As it turns out, the NCR have tried reclaiming Nelson themselves - and landed in trouble for it. Mac can see at least three soldiers pinned up on crosses; he’s surprised they’re not bleeding out. He’s sure they want to make examples of them, to try and lure out the rest of the soldiers before letting them die.

“Please,” the Ranger says. “Don’t let them suffer.”

“We won’t.” Boone’s already looking through his sights at the top of the hill, but his aim is on the legionaries, not the soldiers. Mac doesn’t need to ask to know what he has in mind, and is quick to fight off the mongrels now running to attack them.

 

Mac doesn’t have much trouble countering the recruits’ attacks - most of them are young and unskilled. Despite that, he receives a few gashes along his arms, a swipe across his cheek. By the time it’s quiet in Nelson, his chest is heaving from exertion, his sledgehammer bloody.

“Let them down,” he calls to Boone, gesturing to the soldiers. “I’m going to check the buildings.” No camp would operate without a leader, and he plans to silence him.

 

Two buildings are empty save for partially-rotted bodies. The third has no such stench, which piques Mac’s interest. He’s on edge, sledge in hand, taking slow, deep breaths and listening between steps.

Footsteps behind him have him whipping his head around, ready to attack.

“My, my. Hard to believe such a pathetic worm seems to have escaped death this long.” The decanus laughs even as Mac comes at him, swinging as hard as he can muster. He manages to get a hit in, but so does Dead Sea - jagged machete slashing across his torso and making a bloody mess of his shirt. Mac doubles over with a groan, arms trembling as he moves, swings again -- misses.

“You should have made it easy on yourself and slit your throat years ago,” Dead Sea hisses, “Because I won’t, _profligate._ ”

“Fuck you,” Mac spits, swinging again - a hit. They’re both struggling to stay on their feet, to dodge one another. “Your men are dead -- even if you kill me --”

 

A shot rings through the small house and bits of skull and brain spray across Mac, the decanus’ body dropping to the floor in front of him.

“Piece of shit,” Boone mutters. “Sorry for the mess. You alright?”

“Been better. I’m lucky he wanted to chat.” Biting his lip, Mac presses the flat of his palm against his stomach. It's not deep enough to kill him by any means, but he needs to get patched up sooner rather than later. “Is everyone --”

“Yeah, just spooked. Glad we didn’t have to kill any of ‘em.” Boone lets Mac throw an arm around his shoulders for support as he stumbles toward the door.

“Have you had to do that? Mercy killings?”

“Yeah. More than I’d like.” They’re both quiet again for a few steps. “Let’s get you bandaged. The least they can do is give us supplies.”

 

They spend the night in Nelson despite Mac’s unending protests - _what if more come back, I can walk just fine, it’s not that far ._ Boone keeps watch over Nelson like he would any other night in Novac. The Ranger’d stitched Mac up easily, and swore even if it hurt like a sonofabitch he would be fine.

 

Doesn’t make it any easier to sleep, even if he’s exhausted after the day’s journey and not much more than a nap the night before. Mac sleeps, but only for brief periods, waking when he shifts too hard and feels jarring pain in his gut.

He’s lucky. If Boone had left, it could’ve all been up in the air. The recruits had left him tired -- he’s out of practice. Going after the Legion so soon after his run-in in Goodsprings - not his best idea.

The worst of it is just guilt. Guilt for killing those who would worship a man who could not care less for them. The legionaries he killed - most of them were probably only on their first or second real fight against an actual enemy. Following their training, even to the last - because they didn't have enough experience to adapt. He knows the feeling well.

There's no changing it, he knows. Nothing he can say can make any of them change their minds - that's where Caesar has power. If his armies, his _slaves_ revolted, he'd be the next one on the cross. It'll just never happen, but Mac still gets so furious just thinking about it. About how the only reason no one's turned against Caesar is because he's _respected_ by the people he treats like animals. About how there's still a strong chance they'll take the Mojave for their own.

 

The exhaustion finally gets to be too much a few hours before dawn. Just before he drifts off again, Mac lets his hand drift to his thigh, fingers tracing thick scar tissue. He can feel the outline of it even through his trousers, skin burnt in the shape of a raging bull.


	3. The Road to Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mac and Boone decide to go to New Vegas to track down Mac's would-be killer. Mac is conflicted.

All Mac can manage to do the next day is rest, too exhausted to avoid it any longer. Boone steps in a few times to check on him, although in his waking moments he tells Boone he really doesn’t need to stay. There’s no sense in being held back by someone who can barely sit up, let alone swing at anyone who crosses their path.

But when Mac’s finally ready to leave Nelson behind, Boone’s still there, waiting like they haven’t missed a beat.

“Didn’t have to do that,” Mac says, but smiles through his grimace. It still hurts to walk but it’s bearable. 

“I know.” Boone’s as stone faced as ever, hands on his rifle, eyes squinting behind his aviators. “I just didn’t think you were done fighting.” Mac lets out a grunt of a laugh, nods his head.

“You’re right. And snipers -- they work in pairs, don’t they?”

“That’s right.” 

“Then let’s keep going. I don’t know where they’ve been spotted recently, but word travels pretty quick through most settlements.” 

 

And it does. By the time they reach the next settlement the local bar's full of whispers about Nelson, about who must've stepped in, what the NCR's doing next. Whether they're moving into their town next, if that'll bring conflict too.

Mac and Boone are both near silent through it all. If Mac's being truthful, he's not sure how to feel about the NCR. He's seen them commit atrocities just as the Legion has, an all too common side effect in wars such as these. It's why he opted to be a courier - to stay neutral. To keep moving. So far, it's working, even if he's not sure he has any claim to that job title anymore.

He looks over at Boone, sternly picking at his dinner, and supposes the NCR can't be all bad. He'd be dead if Boone hadn't interfered in Nelson, after all. 

The sniper intrigues him. They're both too quiet to get to know each other that well yet, but there's something about him Mac feels he can trust. They're similar, in ways. On a mission of sorts.

 

That night brings them to a narrow room with narrower beds, a couple of bottles of moonshine sloshing in Mac’s grip - complementary with the room, in some attempt at small-town hospitality he’s never seen before. He nearly chokes on the first swig, screwing his face up as he swallows. When he opens his eyes, Boone is smirking at him, shaking his head.

It’s almost a shock to see anything but a scowl on the other man’s face. Mac lets out a chuckle.

“I uh - I didn’t have this stuff, where I’m from,” he blurts, clumsily shifting his weight as he sits cross-legged on one of the worn down beds. “You know - Mormons.” Boone actually chuckles back at that, and Mac feels his face heat up. Maybe he’s just feeling the liquor already - he’s not so sure how that all works yet. He’s always justified it as liking to keep his wits - and his caps - about him.

“You’re not from around here, then?”

“No. Utah.” He hates being asked about himself, takes another sip from the bottle. It’s less grimace-inducing every time. “What about you?”

“California. Came east with the NCR.” Boone lights a cigarette, pushes his sunglasses back onto his head so he can get a better look at Mac in the dim light. “You didn’t like it out there?”

Mac shrugs, leans back against the wall. He can feel the moonshine in his toes. If he has too much he’ll get too honest, he thinks. “Just needed change.” 

Setting the bottle down, he pulls his hat off, curly hair a mess. He can handle being a little tipsy - it makes talking easier for both of them, and Mac likes that much. It’s a bit embarrassing that he’s this much of a lightweight - but he feels warm and at least sort of sociable, and it’s nice. He can tell Boone’s like him - doesn’t have anybody to talk to, probably doesn’t want to.

But here they are.

“So,” Boone sighs, leaning forward. “A Mormon courier who got shot in the head, retired and started hunting Legion?”

“Well -- I mean -- Sounds real dramatic when you say it like that.” His heart feels like it’s in his throat. 

The courier who was shot in the head part is true. 

Was this too much to be believable?

He picks up the bottle again and watches as Boone just shrugs. 

“I’ve been thinkin’ -- maybe I _should_ go to Vegas,” Mac says, staring up at a water-stained picture on the wall above Boone’s head. “I don’t know what that guy shot me for, but… Maybe it’d be good to know.” There’s guilt creeping up again, wondering who’s trailing him, wondering who’s tried to make him atone for all that he’s done.

Mac swallows a mouthful of liquor. He should be in that Goodsprings graveyard now. 

“Slow down with that stuff,” Boone warns him, shaking his head at him. “If you still want to go when you’re sober, we can go. The last thing you need is a repeat performance because you walked onto the Strip alone.” 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I want to.” 

“Why?”

They both sit in silence for a moment, Boone puffing on his cigarette. He leans back against the wall, sighing smoke out in front of him.

“I have things in my past that I need to answer for. I think coming with you… Is better than going it alone.” 

“I dunno about that. But I’m flattered.” Mac offers him a tight lipped smile. Maybe they can both make up for their pasts somehow. For now, he’s just glad to have the company. It’s been a long time since he’s had a friend. “We’ve all done things we regret.”

“I don’t think you know the half of it.”

 

It's a few days after they leave Nelson when a group of raiders ambush them on the road. Mac excels at close quarters combat; it's all he knows. With his sledge he manages to bring the last of them down before she can get a shot in at Boone, the silence all around them a relief.

“We’re a good match,” Mac laughs. “Now we’re even.”

“We’ll be even when you wait around for me for a few days when I can’t walk.” 

“I mean -- we could arrange that if it’s what you want.”

Boone smiles. And Mac smiles back.

 

The road to Vegas is a long one - maybe it just feels long. Every night Mac feels more anxious about it all, like he’s walking himself to his own death.

He’s not truly bothered by the fact that he’s intending to face someone who wanted him dead. Being a courier was always risky, especially when one didn’t exactly know what their cargo was.

But oh, he fears Vegas.

He fears swarms of NCR who he feels can see right through him. See all that he’s done. See their fallen comrades’ blood on his hands. Smell his guilt.

He fears crowds of people he’ll never quite fit in with, even if he tried - because he can pretend and pretend that he’s just some Utah farm boy, but it’ll never wash away the truth.

He fears the Frumentarii most of all, because they know his name, because he’s feared them since the first time straying from the Legion ever crossed his mind.

When he lies awake at night, he wishes he were dead in Goodsprings. It sounds a damn sight better than being strung up to die like the deserter he is - and now, for Boone to find out the truth.


End file.
